I'll Call It Like I See It

by sheila morris

Category: ageism

  • when women succeed, America succeeds

    when women succeed, America succeeds


    By Nancy Pelosi, House speaker emerita (msnbc.com)

    On this day [July 19, 1848] 175 years ago, in the small town of Seneca Falls, New York, a group of visionary women shook the world.

    With their Declaration of Sentiments, they not only echoed but improved upon our founding charter — boldly asserting that “all men and women are created equal” and rallying women to “demand the equal station to which they are entitled.”

    Imagine the courage that it took for those women at that time. Some had left home without their husband’s or father’s permission, and spoke openly about issues of discrimination and disenfranchisement and domestic violence.

    The groundbreaking convention in Seneca Falls further energized what was a burgeoning women’s rights movement in America. And since then, generations of fearless women marching, mobilizing and demanding full equality for all have carried forth their torch.

    Today, we stand on the shoulders of our courageous foremothers. Because they took a stand, at last we have a seat at the table.

    For their audacity in blazing a path for progress, our nation owes a debt to Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Lucretia Mott, Martha Wright, Mary Ann M’Clintock, Jane Hunt, Alice Paul, Susan B. Anthony, Sojourner Truth and countless heroines of history, including those who were enslaved, abused or marginalized.

    More than seven decades later, women won the right to vote with the 19th Amendment, although it would take many more decades before Black women could fully exercise this freedom everywhere. The Equal Pay Act of 1963 and the Lilly Ledbetter Fair Pay Act of 2009 are both pieces of an ongoing effort to close the gender pay gap. In the 1990s, Congress secured expanded access to family and medical leave, as well as strong protections in the Violence Against Women Act. 

    Meanwhile, our coalition has only grown broader and stronger as we have fought for the rights and protections of transgender women and nonbinary Americans. 

    All this progress has made possible a woman as vice president, a woman as speaker — and someday soon, a woman as president.

    Today, we stand on the shoulders of our courageous foremothers. Because they took a stand, at last we have a seat at the table. 

    Yet outrageously, our centuries-long march toward gender justice was abruptly halted last summer when the Republican supermajority on the Supreme Court took a wrecking ball to women’s health freedom.

    The monstrous decision overturning Roe v. Wade ripped away long-held rights — and unleashed a flood of draconian policies denying access to the full spectrum of reproductive care, even in life-threatening circumstances.

    For the first time in our history, girls growing up today have less reproductive freedom than their mothers. Democrats will not rest until the rights of Roe are restored for all. 

    At the same time, women still face too many barriers in the workplace.

    Gender justice starts with finally achieving equal pay for equal work. And we must ease the burden of caregiving that falls disproportionately on women by investing in the expanded child tax credit, universal child care, paid family and medical leave, home health care services and more.

    This is the imperative, ongoing work of the Biden-Harris administration and Democrats in the Congress — and we are committed to finishing the job.

    The story of America has always been one of ever-expanding freedoms, from abolishing the scourge of slavery, which was strongly supported at Seneca Falls, to ensuring all women and people of color are able to vote, to securing reproductive freedom, to achieving marriage equality.

    These victories were made possible by everyday Americans participating in the highest form of patriotism: outside mobilization. This is the indelible legacy of Seneca Falls, stirring generations of women not to wait but to work for change.

    So, on this momentous 175th anniversary, let us renew our pledge to continue the work of Seneca Falls. Because all of America’s mothers, wives, sisters and daughters must be able to enjoy the liberties and opportunities that they deserve. 

    When women succeed, America succeeds.

    Nancy Pelosi

    Speaker emerita Nancy Pelosi has represented San Francisco in Congress for more than 36 years. She served as the 52nd speaker of the U.S. House of Representatives, from 2007 to 2011 and from 2019 to 2023.

    ****************

    Lest we forget…onward.

  • and now I’m seven and seventy

    and now I’m seven and seventy


    Six years ago in the summer of 2017 I posted my version of British poet A.E. Housman’s classic poem “When I was One and Twenty” published in 1896 in a collection called A Shropshire Lad. Housman, who was born in 1859 and died in 1936 at the age of seventy-seven, had partially funded the publication of A Shropshire Lad following a publisher’s rejection. In today’s jargon, we call that self-publishing. The book has been in continuous print since then so somewhere in London a poetry publisher in the last decade of the nineteenth century cursed himself on a Roman British tablet…or on something equally appropriate for turning down this classic.

    When I Was One-and-Twenty

    When I was one-and-twenty
           I heard a wise man say,
    “Give crowns and pounds and guineas
           But not your heart away;
    Give pearls away and rubies
           But keep your fancy free.”
    But I was one-and-twenty,
           No use to talk to me.
     
    When I was one-and-twenty
           I heard him say again,
    “The heart out of the bosom
           Was never given in vain;
    ’Tis paid with sighs a plenty
           And sold for endless rue.”
    And I am two-and-twenty,
           And oh, ’tis true, ’tis true.
     
     
    When I was One and Twenty
    BY Sheila R. Morris

    When I was one and twenty, my father said to me,

     “Work hard, be kind to others, the truth will set you free;

    a penny saved is a penny earned was his advice to me.”

    But I was one and twenty, no use to talk to me.

    When I was one and twenty, my father said again,

    “Work harder, be smarter, but always be a friend;

    love family, serve country, life’s games are played to win.”

    And now I’m seven and seventy I hear my father say,

    “You did your best, forget the rest, your heart led all the way.”

    ***************************

    Tomorrow is my 77th. birthday which I have celebrated with Pretty and our two best friends Nekki and Francie in the south of France for ten remarkable days filled with delicious food, three days at the Masters 1000 Tennis Tournament in Monte Carlo, and a day at the Cannes Films Festival (or “pre-festival” according to Pretty who knows everything about pop culture) where I donated my last American dollars to a casino next to the pink carpet.

    The trip was on my short bucket list – a trip made possible through the generosity of our friends whose love and laughter made my bucket overflow with happiness. The time with Pretty is always special – luckily she came home with me but told me she would like to live in Nice for two years (if she could bring her granddaughters and their parents!).    

     

    (l. to r.) Francie, me, Pretty, Nekki – country come to town

    Pretty and me at Matisse Museum

    Francie and me grateful for bus

    after unexpected downpour leaving Matisse Museum

    Francie and Nekki on hotel rooftop

    Pretty happy with setting, lunch and the polka dot hat

    Thanks to our trip photographer Nekki for capturing some of our memory makers.

    And thanks to all of you, my readers and followers who have also become my friends, for sharing part of my journey over the past thirteen years. Impossible to imagine that time without you.

    Onward.

    *****************************

    Slava Ukraini. For the children.

  • easter, comes the resurrection

    easter, comes the resurrection


    Thirteen years ago this Easter my mother was in a secured memory care unit of the Atria Westchase assisted living complex in Houston, Texas. Pretty and I had just bought a second home in Montgomery, Texas so I could be closer to Mom as her dementia progressed. On that Easter Sunday in 2010 I arrived in time for a chapel service before lunch with my mom.  After lunch, well, here’s what happened…

    The traditional Easter egg hunt came to us mid-afternoon through the children of the staff members. The day was beautiful, and the fenced courtyard area was the perfect setting for a party. Those in our lunch group pushed their walkers or were wheeled outside into the bright sunlight, those who could sat in the Adirondack chairs under the portico. I met three other daughters who were visiting their mothers that day which made me glad I was there with my mother, too.

    The Latino women who were the caregivers for the memory care unit brought their children to enjoy the search for the pastel colored plastic eggs filled with candy in the tranquil setting of the facility’s outdoors. Eggs were hidden everywhere, including on and around the residents.  Jim, a tall, sad, unshaven man who never spoke and struggled to move opened the chocolate egg Rosa placed in his shirt pocket; he ate the candy before the kids arrived. No one tried to stop him including my mother who in days of yore would have surely reprimanded him in her best elementary school teacher tone.

    The small group of children burst into the courtyard with an exuberance all youngsters bring to filling an Easter basket. Ages ranged from four to twelve, with one six-month-old baby girl held by her mother. They were dressed in their Sunday best. Little boys wore ties with their jackets, little girls wore pretty spring dresses. It could’ve been a movie set, I thought, because they were strikingly beautiful shildren. They flew around grabbing eggs with gusto as their baskets filled quickly. They were noisy, laughing, talking – incredibly alive.

    It was the resurrection. For a few brief minutes, the stones were rolled away from the minds buried deep in the tombs of the bodies that kept them hidden. The children raced around the residents searching for treasures, exclaiming with delight when one was discovered. One little boy overlooked a blue egg under a wheel chair, and my mother tapped his shoulder to point it out to him. He was elated and flashed a brilliant smile at her. She responded with a look of pure delight. The smiles and the murmurings of the elderly were clear signs of their obvious joy that proclaimed the reality of Easter in those moments.  Hallelujah. We were all risen.

    Memories were made and lost that afternoon. The children who came to the place where their mothers worked to find eggs among the old people were unlikely to forget this day.  Years from now some will tell the stories of the Easter Egg Hunt with the Ancient Ones.  The stories will be as different as their own journeys will take them.  For my mother and her friends, no stories will be told because they won’t remember. My mother doesn’t know I was there for her on Easter this year which is not unexpected.  But I remember I was, and it is enough for both of us.

    I was born on another Easter Sunday morning in April 1946, and that makes the year 2010 my sixty-fourth Easter. I recollect a few of the earliest Easters from my childhood: sacred religious days for my loving Southern Baptist family who rarely missed a worship service on any Sunday of the year but never at Christmas or Easter. I also remember having a hard time finding eggs in the church hunts. My baskets never runneth over. But to be honest, in recent years Easter Sundays had been difficult to distinguish from any other day of the week.

    When I moved away from my family in Texas in my early twenties to explore my sexual identity, I didn’t know I’d be gone for forty years. I also had no way of knowing one of the costs of my freedom from family togetherness was my absence from family rituals.  Distance, travel time, money, job obligations, girlfriends—these were the obstacles I had to overcome for visits home. Or maybe they were just excuses. I usually made the trip home at Christmas and less frequently one more time in the summer. But never for Easter.

    This Easter was special for me because it was a day with no excuses necessary. I shared a Sunday sundae with my mother for lunch today at a table neither of us could have envisioned a few years before. Today was just the two of us, and if there were barriers between us that once seemed too impenetrable, they were now lost in the cobwebs of time.

    We were all risen, indeed.

    **************

    Happy Easter if you celebrate. Happy Passover if you celebrate. Ramadan Mubarak if you celebrate.

    (This post is an excerpt from my third book I’ll Call It like I See It)

  • everything, everywhere all at once – Cardinal style

    everything, everywhere all at once – Cardinal style


    the two OG cats post Carport Kitty

    neighbor cat visits regularly

    Charly getting white hair, too – but still always at my side

    Carl’s life is as blurry as this picture with loss of hearing, vision –

    but his smell for treats as healthy as ever

    loyal old man Spike at his guard post: no retreat, no surrender

    photo by mother Caroline

    our granddaughters three year old Ella holds year old Molly

    Okay, so I shamelessly stole the 2023 Oscar winner title for this little Monday morning personal multiverse that Pretty and I inhabit every day. Mea culpa. Enjoy – no goggles required.

    Thankfully, all quiet on the Cardinal front today.

    Stay tuned.

    *************************

    Slava Ukraini. Lest we forget the war rages on.

  • ode to the Old Woman in the Shoe

    ode to the Old Woman in the Shoe


    There once was an old woman who lived in a shoe. She had so many health issues she didn’t know what to do.

    From the white hair on her head to the arthritic joints in her swollen toes that bent in odd overlapping shapes like desperate prisoners trying to climb over each other seeking escape from their confinement of pain, arthritic joints that were mysteriously connected to a right foot whose contour she barely recognized anymore.

    From the small red knobs poking out the top of aching disfigured fingers in both hands she once thought to be beautiful like her father’s hands had been, to the true personification of the legendary Achilles heel connecting that same strange right foot to one of two legs held together with artificial knees easily identified by long scars.

    From the ugly shades of brown, crusty, smelly skin patches under her sagging breasts that retreated in different directions following their loss of the Battle of the Bras, to the deep wrinkles now covering both sides of her face just like the trenches on her grandmother’s face had done.

    From taking an inordinate amount of time in a public restroom because of kidneys not interested in competing with younger bladders to being overlooked by adolescent pharmacists who preferred serving younger customers first regardless of their place in line.

    From the perpetually tearing eyes now struggling to discern shapes, colors, depths, and distances to the earring resistant ears engaged in a similar scuffle over distinguishing conversations in noisy restaurants, loud indoor arenas, small family gatherings, even cell phones.

    From icy hands and feet at night that could easily be used for injury first aid treatment or be equally effective for use in a Yeti cooler in the summertime to prevent melting chocolate caramel candies…to the gradual loss of the teeth necessary for eating any chewy sweets or, more importantly, popcorn. 

    Behold the old woman who still lives in a shoe, but now the shoe is a Croc of shoe.

    *********************

    Slava Ukraini. For the old people.